I wondered why the hell she had to pick Battery Park
City of all places. Battery Park was at the southernmost tip of NewYork City, but was barely in NewYork City. I'd been there a few times, reporting on a new housing development that was alleged to be one of the city's first "green" buildings, but a little digging turned up that the solar panels alleged to power thirty percent of the building's generator were nothing more than fancy aluminum, and the developer had pocketed a few hundred grand from snookered tenants.
Since I wasn't calling the shots, I hopped on the 4 train and rode it to the Bowling Green stop. When I got off, I immediately saw two Starbucks (or was it Starbuckses?
Starbucksi?) across the street from each other. I walked into the first one, didn't see Amanda, and sheepishly left.
Battery Park had a stunning view of the Hudson River, the grand Statue of Liberty easily visible from the shore.
Because of its proximity to the ocean, the temperature in
Battery Park was ten to fifteen degrees cooler than the rest of Manhattan, so in August it was still a brisk sixty-five.
I was glad I'd decided to wear a sport jacket.
The second Starbucks thankfully was the right one, though if I came up empty I didn't doubt there was another one right around the corner, or even inside the restroom.
Amanda was sitting by a back table reading a discarded copy of the Dispatch. Next to her purse was a small tote bag.
Inside it I could see a thick folder with stark white printouts spilling out. She saw me coming and put down the paper. I pulled out the chair to sit down, but Amanda shook her head.
"Uh-uh." I stood there, confused. "Double latte. One sugar."
"Scone?"
"Nope. Gotta watch my girlish figure."
I wanted to tell her she needed to watch her figure like
Britney needed another mouth to feed, but decided against it.
I nodded, bought the drink, fixed it to her specifications, set it down on the table and sat down.
"The Dispatch? " I said, gesturing to the discarded paper. "Really?"
"It's for show, stupid. I'm here incognito."
"Right. So that's it? The Oliveira file?" I said, gesturing to the tote bag. She sipped her drink, nodded.
"I feel like we're investigating Watergate or something," she replied. "Passing folders under the table."
"If that were the case, I could think of a few places a little less conspicuous than Starbucks."
"That why we're in Battery Park. You think either of us knows a soul down here? Besides, I thought you loved the
Woodward and Bernstein stuff."
"I do, but Robert Redford is a little too old and leathery to play me. And Dustin Hoffman's too short for you."
Amanda looked around exaggeratedly. She eyed the barista, squinted her eyes. I had no idea what in the hell she was doing. It was as if she was expecting a rogue team of FBI agents to come out of nowhere and load her in the back of a van. Sadly, it wasn't even two years ago when two FBI agents did break into her house and shoot someone in her bedroom.
Maybe that's what made it funnier.
She pressed her foot up against the tote bag underneath the table. Then she kicked it toward me. Then she gestured at the bag before taking a long, slow sip of her latte.
"Oh, is that for me?"
She eyed me contemptuously. "Oh, for Christ's sake, open the damn thing."
I picked up the tote and pulled out the folder. The top sheet was Michelle Oliveira's birth certificate. She was born on November 15, 1991. That would make her sixteen today. Michelle Oliveira's parents were Carlos and
Jennifer Oliveira. At the time of the abduction, the family resided in Meriden, Connecticut. According to tax records,
Carlos worked as a housepainter, and Jennifer had worked in a variety of temp jobs over the years. Secretary to an orthodontist. Court stenographer. Doctor's office receptionist. Telemarketer.
Together, the Oliveiras' income never exceeded thirtyfour-thousand dollars a year. They had two other children, a boy, Juan, now fourteen, and a girl, Josephine, twelve.
Juan was a high school freshman, Josephine was just about to begin the seventh grade. Their sister Michelle was kidnapped on March 23, 1997, not yet six years old. She returned on February 16, 2001, nearly four years later.
According to the report, Michelle had spent that afternoon at the home of Patrick and Lynette Lowe. Michelle was in grade school with their daughter Iris, and according to interviews with the Lowes, and confirmed by the
Oliveiras, Michelle often went to the Lowes' home after school to play. She would often stay at the Lowes' from approximately three-thirty to six, at which time she would come home to get ready for dinner. As the Lowes lived just four houses down on the same block as the Oliveiras, the families admitted she walked home on most occasions unsupervised. On March 23 she left the Lowes' home at approximately a quarter to six. At six-fifteen Jennifer
Oliveira called Lynette Lowe to ask when Michelle would be home. When Lynette Lowe informed Jennifer that
Michelle had left half an hour earlier, and Josephine could not find Michelle on their block, she called the police.
The Meriden PD found no trace of Michelle Oliveira.
They compared tire tracks found on Warren Street to all vehicles registered to inhabitants of the block. All vehicles checked out. Nobody had seen Michelle after she left the
Lowes. No neighbor glimpsed the girl. Nobody came forward. Michelle Oliveira had simply vanished.
The next page contained her social security number, employment records, known addresses. And her parents'.
I looked at Amanda. She was absently sipping her coffee while eyeing me.
"Did you read this already?" I asked. She nodded.
I continued reading. In 2003, two years after Michelle's reappearance, the Oliveiras moved from Meriden to
Westport. Westport, I knew, was a much more affluent part of Connecticut. Records indicated that the Oliveiras were able to sell their home in Meriden for nearly
$800,000, nearly triple what they'd paid for it ten years earlier. That was quite a profit for a family who couldn't afford to do much refurbishing.
"What are you thinking?" Amanda asked.
"I'm thinking I'm throwing away money by renting my apartment."
"Seriously," she said. "As soon as I can afford it, I'm leaving Darcy and buying a studio."
"Good luck coming up with half a million dollars," I replied.
"No way."
"You want three hundred and fifty square feet in Manhattan? Damn right you'll need half a mil." Amanda shook her head, obviously realizing that living for free with
Darcy wasn't so bad.
"One thing's for sure," I said. "The Oliveiras couldn't wait to get the heck out of Meriden after Michelle turned up."
"Can you really blame them? I mean, their daughter disappears, do you really want to hang around and subject her to those memories? Subject your other children to that? I'd want to start my life over, that's for sure."
"I guess you're right," I said "God, that has to be every parent's worst nightmare come true."
I thumbed through the papers and the rest of the police reports, paying particular attention to the reports from the day Michelle disappeared and the day she returned. The police work had been thorough. More than thirty neighbors and friends had been interviewed, as well as all of
Michelle's classmates, teachers and her private music instructor, which the Oliveiras admitted cost nearly a hundred dollars a session. In the report, Carlos and
Jennifer acknowledged the expense, stating their daughter was a gifted violinist and they simply wanted to give her the best chance to "make it."
"Michelle's currently enrolled at Juilliard," Amanda said. "Full scholarship."
"You don't say. I guess Michelle did make it. That's called beating the odds."